A single mother writes unanswered letters to an American soldier, the absent father of her child. Her son, the mixed-race Chang-Guk, is tainted by the violence and revulsion he faces every day. His bitter experiences give him the only language he knows to express his love for his mother.
A wounded girl, a shy boy and a lonely young American soldier are intertwined in relationships of love and pain, and for their parents the legacy of the Korean War is still a daily fact of life. They all live under the shadow of the U.S. military forces stationed in South Korea. None can escape the inevitable tragedy of their condition.
The film is a story of violent innocence and brutal love, committed by good people mired in the poisonous legacy of war.

At Venice 2000, Kim Ki-duk took spectators unawares with the disturbing The Isle, just as Jang Sun-woo’s Lies had the previous year, proving the sheer new power and imagination of Korean cinema. Korean cinema as its fullest can be a rough ride, full of blood, guts and fury, and The Isle, with its visions of fish baits ripping throat and vagina, and fish being cut into gory pieces right in front of the camera, was a hard oeuvre to swallow, despite the scenery and overall strong performances.

For Address Unknown, even before the opening credits, a warning says: « No animal has been harmed in any way during the making of this film » - an ironic harbinger, which made the Venice audience giggle and shiver in expectation of gruesome scenes of animal violence. Early reviews of the film warned that the film was again not for the squeamish, featuring strong shock effects, such as dogs being beaten to death for a special kind of Korean cuisine, as well as eye blinding.

I have to say that I totally disagree with reports of the film deeming it shocking or overly gruesome. The profound interest of this film lies elsewhere, in its social and emotional resonance, in the intimate portrayal of a racially mixed child and his mother looking for the father, a black GI sent back to the USA after being stationed in a Korean military base.

Since 1950, seven or so American military bases have been established on South Korean territory. This presence has led to the formation of keejichon, which might be described as vicinity prostitution camps. Relationships between Korean women and GI’s have given birth to many crossbred children, who have had a hard time finding their place in Korean society, especially Black Asian-Americans. Social tensions have also increased with numerous sexual assaults on Korean women and Korean lethal retaliations on American soldiers.

Address Unknown is a film based on Kim Ki-duk’s youthful memories of living under such tensions. The three main characters are based on existing persons, including Kim himself.

« About 70% is based on what actually happened, » says Kim Ki-duk. « The character of Ji-hum, the weak teenager, is a reflection of myself. The crossbreed child is like a friend that I had, and the one-eyed female character is also like someone that I knew, living in my neighborhood, and who was a little bit younger than me. »

This being said, Address Unknown is, like Kim’s previous films, a kaleidoscope of angst, frustration and anger set in the margins of Korean society. Scenes of wretchedness and bodily violence alternate with frail moments of appeasement and sulky conciliation. The character of the ostracized but vigorous dog slaughterer will remind connoisseurs of Japanese culture of the burakumin, the outcast animal slaughterers and skin tanners of ancient Japan.

Even more interestingly, Kim Ki-duk has made an effort not to describe American soldiers as evil harbingers of doom and sexual violence. Though he confesses he was torn between pro- and anti-Americanism during the writing, Kim Ki-duk managed to let the psychological wretchedness of the GI’s surface throughout the story, as well as the efforts of some senior officers to curb flirting and misconduct among soldiers.

“ I noticed that American soldiers are also victims, » says Kim Ki-duk, «because they are very lonely in this land which they are not very familiar with. So I tried to depict more their human aspects.”

But the concessions made on this part of the story do not prevent Kim from doing what he does best: take his battered child of fate on an edgy descent into hell, where self-infliction of pain remains the only catharsis and full defiance of society’s own ungovernable evils. But the suicidal finale of the film cannot totally black out the hope that lays in the honesty and emotional integrity of these people, whom Kim Ki-duk makes sure will never be discarded into oblivion.

Robin Gatto

In a productive career spanning five years and six remarkable films, Kim Ki-Duk has proven himself to be a shockingly original filmmaker whose work negotiates the terrain between mainstream appeal and art cinema bravura. In his films, he translates the inner desires of marginalized people into images where shivering self-destruction and sublime lyricism co-exist. His rough and charged visual style, like prehistoric cave paintings, are a far cry from the bourgeois aesthetic of art constructed on canvas and easel. Director Kim declares, "I try my best, but I do not want to be the best." Many have already begun to bestow upon Kim Ki-Duk the mantle of artistic heir to one of Korea's cinematic masters, the late Kim Ki-Young, who presented us with sophisticated figurations of diabolic desire in an earlier age of Korean cinema (1950s -- 1960s).